She had no idea what fending for herself would mean: the sleeping in brothels or doss houses, the hunger, the abuse, the disease and fear. She had no craft with which to earn her living honestly in a sweatshop working eighteen hours a day, even if her health and her nerve would stand it. But he easily believed she would accept it rather than allow Julia to know what had really happened.

"I shall not tell her it was Audley," he promised. "You need not fear."

The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She gulped and sniffed.

"Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Monk." She fished for a handkerchief a few niches square and mostly lace. It was useless.

He passed her his and she took it silently and wiped her eyes, hesitated, then blew her nose as well. Then she was confused, uncertain whether to offer it back to him or not.

He smiled in spite of himself. "Keep it," he offered.

"Thank you."

"Now I had better go and give your sister my final report."

She nodded and sniffed again. "She will be disappointed, but don't let her prevail upon you. However put out she is by not knowing, knowing would be infinitely worse."

"You had better stay here."

"I shall." She gulped. "And-thank you, Mr. Monk."

He found Julia in the morning room writing letters. She looked up as soon as he came in, her face quick with anticipation. He loathed the need to lie, and it cut his pride to have to admit defeat at all, and when he had actually solved the case it was acutely bitter.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Penrose, but I feel that I have pursued this case as far as I can, and to follow it any further would be a waste of your resources-"

"That is my concern, Mr. Monk," she interrupted quickly, laying her pen aside. "And I do not consider it a waste."

"What I am trying to say is that I shall learn nothing further." He said it with difficulty. Never previously that he could recall had he flinched from telling someone a truth, regardless of its ugliness. Perhaps he should have. It was another side of his character it would probably be painful to look into.

"You cannot know that," she argued, her face already beginning to set in lines of stubbornness. "Or are you saying that you do not believe that Marianne was assaulted at all?"

"No, I was not saying that," he said sharply. "I believe without question that she was, but whoever did it was a stranger to her, and we have no way of finding him now, since none of your neighbors saw him or any evidence that might lead to his identity."

"Someone may have seen him," she insisted. "He did not materialize from nowhere. Maybe he was not a tramp of any sort, but a guest of someone in the neighborhood. Have you thought of that?" Now there was challenge in her voice and in her eyes.

"Who climbed over the wall in the chance of finding mischief?" he asked with as little sarcasm as was possible to the words.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said tartly. "He must have come in through the herb garden when Rodwell was not there. Maybe he mistook the house and thought it was that of someone he knew."

"And found Miss Gillespie in the summerhouse and assaulted her?"

"It would seem so. Yes," she agreed. "I daresay he indulged in some sort of conversation first, and she cannot remember it because the whole episode was so appalling she has cut it all from her mind. Such things happen."

He thought of his own snatches of memory and the cold sweat of horror, the fear, the rage, the smell of blood, confusion, and blindness again.

"I know that," he said bitterly.

"Then please continue to pursue it, Mr. Monk." She looked at him with challenge, too consumed in her own emotion to hear his. "Or if you are unable or unwilling to, then perhaps you can recommend me the name of another person of inquiry who will."

"I believe you have no chance of success, Mrs. Penrose," he said a little stiffly. "Not to tell you so would be less than honest."

"I commend your integrity," she said dryly. "Now you have told me, and I have heard what you say, and requested you to continue anyway."

He tried one more time. "You will learn nothing!"

She stood up from her desk and came toward him. "Mr. Monk, have you any idea how appalling a crime it is for a man to force himself upon a woman? Perhaps you imagine it is merely a matter of modesty and a little reluctance, and that really when a woman says no she does not truly mean it?"

He opened his mouth to argue, but she rushed on. "That is a piece of meretricious simplicity men use to justify to themselves an act of brutality that can never be excused. My sister is very young, and unmarried. It was a violation of the very worst nature. It has introduced her to-to bestiality-instead of to a-a …." She blushed but did not avoid his eyes. "A sacred relationship which she-oh- really." She lost patience with herself. "No one has a right to behave toward anyone else in such a way, and if your nature is too insensitive to appreciate that, then there is no way for me to tell you."

Monk chose his words carefully. "I agree with you that it is a base offense, Mrs. Penrose. My reluctance to continue has no relation to the seriousness of the crime, only to the impossibility of finding the offender now."

"I suppose I should have come to you sooner," she conceded. "Is that what you are saying? Marianne did not tell me the true nature of the event until several days after it had happened, and then it took me some little while to make up my mind what was best to do. After that it took me another three days to locate you and inquire something of your reputation-which is excellent. I am surprised that you have given in so quickly. That is not what people say of you."

The anger hardened inside him and only Marianne's anguish stopped him retaliating.

"I shall return tomorrow and we shall discuss it further,"

he said grimly. "I will not continue to take your money for something I believe cannot be done."

"I will be obliged if you will come in the morning," she replied. "As you have observed, my husband is not aware of the situation, and explanations are becoming increasingly difficult"

. "Perhaps you should give me a letter to your cousin Mr. Finnister," he suggested. "In case anything is said, I shall post it, so there will be no unfortunate repercussions in the future."

"Thank you. That is most thoughtful of you. I will do so."

And still angry, and feeling disturbed and confused, he took his leave, walking briskly back toward Fitzroy Street and his rooms.

He could come to no satisfactory conclusion himself. He did not understand the events and the emotions profoundly enough to be confident in a decision. His anger toward Audley Penrose was monumental. He could have seen him punished with intense satisfaction; indeed, he longed to see it. And yet he could understand Marianne's need to protect not only herself but also Julia.

For once his own reputation as a detective was of secondary importance. Whatever the outcome of his entering the case, he could not even consider improving his professional standing at the expense of ruining either of the women.

Miserable, and in a very short temper, he went to see Callandra Daviot, and his ill humor was exacerbated immediately on finding Hester Latterly present. It was several weeks since he had last seen her, and their parting had been far from friendly. As so often happened, they had quarreled about something more of manner than of substance. In fact, he could not remember what it was now, only that she had been abrasive as usual and unwilling to listen or consider his view. Now she was sitting in Callandra's best chair, the one he most preferred, looking tired and far from the gently feminine creature Julia Penrose was. Hester's hair was thick and nearly straight and she had taken little trouble to dress it with curls or braids. Pulled as it was it showed the fine, strong bones of her face and the passionate features, the intelligence far too dominant to be attractive. Her gown was pale blue and the skirt, without hoops, a trifle crushed.